


Clawmentary and Peanuts

by NightshadeKitten



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26963506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightshadeKitten/pseuds/NightshadeKitten
Summary: The Peanut has arrived. Someone needs to call the game.
Kudos: 4





	Clawmentary and Peanuts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [da crabs baby love da crabs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=da+crabs+baby+love+da+crabs).



The tension in the clawmentator’s box was high. Stu Trololol had taken the mound after two quick singles were pitched out, and she was clearly itching to bring about the reverse sweeping Shame to the Crabs. Adalberto Tosser wound up.

Crack.

The blaseball flew.

In an instant, the loud sounds of clawmentators and Crabs fans clamoring for outs from Tosser were silenced. The Charleston Stadium erupted in cheering, having just won the Internet Series.

Until, suddenly, the alarms began to sound. The shrill and horrible noise of the alert drowned out the cheers that soon fell quiet, confusion washing over the crowd of Blaseball fans. Commentators from both teams shot glances of confusion at one another from across the park as the dusty red ticker printer nearby suddenly started whirring, ticker tape pounding out a message.

EMERGENCY ALERT. EMERGENCY ALERT. EMERGENCY ALERT.

TAKE COVER IMMEDIATELY. SEEK SHELTER. TAKE COVER IMMEDIATELY. SEEK SHELTER.

The ticker printed lines of silence.

Silence.

Then…

I N C O M I N G.

As the last letter ticked free, commentators and clawmentators alike went back on their microphones, a mere breath escaping before the skies parted, a horrific cracking of the clouds above.

“I AM HERE,” it said.

“AND YOU ARE OUT.”

Confused screams began to echo through the stadium as fans rushed towards the exits, finding them barred by a strange, horrible, peanut shell gating. The Peanut would not have its subjects flee from its decrees.

“COME TO ME, MY PODS. HEAVEN WILL TREMBLE BEFORE YOU.”

The booming voice seemed to burrow into the very mind, silencing the screams in the stands. As the words echoed out, the sounds of a struggle could be heard, as the Crabs team was fighting against the shell of Axel Trololol drifting towards the Peanut. Reports began to flood in via ticker of shelled players the nation over being ripped from their resting places, hurtling towards Charleston.

“You can’t have them!” shouted Kennedy Loser, from the field. Nagomi McDaniel, winding up with her bat to try and crack the shell, was stopped short as a crack formed on its own, rippling up the shell as the rest of the many shells came, thudding into the ground with thundercracks.

“YOU THINK YOU ARE SO TOUGH? YOU THINK YOU HAVE POWER? WE WILL SEE.”

Players began to filter in, to their places at bat. Peanut Holloway. Pitching Machine. The young York Silk.

Jessica Telephone, still wielding her Dial Tone.

Jaylen Hotdogfingers, leading the Shoe Thieves, took the mound. As if the team was compelled by their victory, the Peanut had all but commanded them to the field once more.

“TIME TO TEACH YOU SOME DISCIPLINE.”

The call to play ball sounded. Fans sat back in their seats, horrified at the scene below. They could not get out, and all that was left was to watch Blaseball, or whatever hellish mockery of the splort this was.

Innings began to pass in a blur, it felt, the all-star team being coined as The Shelled One’s Pods running circles around the Internet League champions. The terrified silence in the clawmentator’s box was palpable as the skies above rippled through horrifying weather conditions, between peanuts raining from above, to the Birds assaulting the Peanut, only to be rebuffed by its pure size.

“... Ball, 1 and 0,” came a voice in the box. Heads turned to see the fan favorite Crabmoney leaning into their mic. They gestured to the rest of the clawmentators, who quickly received the message. Across the box, the letters atop each microphone began to light up, signaling the hot mics. WKRB. KRAB.

“This is Orange Fox, clawmentating on this game,” came the familiar deep voice of the vixen clawmentator, soon joined by another, and another. Clawmentators joined in, slow and sure, broadcasting to their fans, and taking turns, popcorning around to ensure that Crabs fans around the world began to hear a voice, began to hear something, anything.

The tension was high. So much higher than it had been during the finals. Clawmentary about the spirits of the teams, about the plays being made. About the Peanut taking Axel Trololol to face off against his newly minted champion sister, Stu. It had to be called. As Blaseball had to be played, the game had to be clawmentated upon. This game – this battle, was too important to be left silent on the radio.

CRACK.

Jessica Telephone let the Dial Tone come to rest beside her as a ball pitched from Jaylen cracked the sky, the legendary bat seeming to be smoking as the ball cleared the heavens themselves.  
“… The game is over, folks,” came one shaky voice in the box. “The Shoe Thieves have lost to the Peanut. We at WKRB don’t quite know what that means, and we don’t know how things are outside the stadium right now. Stay in your homes. Stay safe. Seek shelter if you haven’t already. Do not eat peanuts. We will do our best to bring you clawmentary of these games so that you can stay safe at home. Claws up, Baltimore. The worst is yet to come, for certain, and we will call all of it.”

“Together, we’ll get through this.”

“Together…we’ll kill this fucking nut.”


End file.
